Chapter Text
For a singular moment, the only sounds to be heard are the soft click of decanter against cup and the trickle of Dornish red. Rhaenyra watches patiently while her cupbearer and youngest half-sibling, Daeron, finishes pouring wine into the Grand Maester’s cup.
Alicent looks to be frozen, her face soured into a disdainful frown. The entire small council is still taking in Tyland Lannister’s words, spoken recklessly amongst the discussion of who ought to become the new Master of Whisperers. Perhaps spurred on by the wine or, more likely, his own hubris, the Lord of Casterly Rock had posed a futile question: why the Dowager Queen still attended these meetings, now that her husband had died?
Viserys the Peaceful had passed in his sleep several weeks ago and Rhaenyra had been crowned not long after. In the days since, she has yet to make any large changes to her small council, with the exception of bidding Lord Strong to take up his seat at Harrenhal.
The silence drags on and Rhaenyra clears her throat to dispel it. “Perhaps I should make clear to you, Lord Lannister, what I assumed heretofore to be apparent. The Realm has depended on Queen Alicent for many years now, and it depends upon her still.”
A soft shuffle to her right—Daeron has slid up to his mother’s side and refills her cup, receiving a warm smile for it in return.
“I greatly appreciate her support in the government of these Kingdoms. So greatly in fact, that I consider none on this council as indispensable as her.” Rhaenyra looks pointedly at Tyland as she says this. He looks notably uncomfortable under her gaze and the slight disapproving looks from the others.
Rhaenyra sits back down and the men follow—Alicent, perhaps in shock, perhaps in quiet defiance, had remained seated. “Let us get back to the topic at hand,” she sighs.
Her Master of Coin and Master of Laws fall back into their unfinished debate, both blindly pushing their candidates before starting their arguments against the names offered. This is going to be a long meeting, Rhaenyra surmises, and she takes a sip of wine.
Under the table, out of sight to the other members, Alicent’s hand covers hers. Her thumb slides over Rhaenyra’s knuckles and the gentle caress is almost enough to transport her someplace else, someplace far distant, somewhere high over the Narrow Sea, to lands unknown.
At the end of the day Rhaenyra has almost forgotten about Tyland’s question, but Alicent remains annoyed throughout their dinner, so much so that even Daemon notices and makes an airy remark inquiring about what Aegon has done now—to the anger of the boy, who rolls his eyes and answers it with a jest about Daemon’s own escapades, calling him a drunk whoremonger and a prick. All in all, it’s not much different from their usual nights.
When dinner is done and the servants have started clearing the table, Rhaenyra asks about it. “My Queen,” she starts, if only to see that familiar fire rekindle in Alicent’s dark eyes. “Please tell me that straw haired idiot’s words are not still on your mind.”
Alicent shifts the toddler on her lap—Viserys the Second, softly chattering to the wooden dragon in his hands in a language neither Common or Valyrian. “Of course they are. Fools, the lot of them—acting as if I’ve lost all and any capabilities I had along with Viserys.” The boy in her lap looks up at hearing his name and Alicent softens in her anger, smoothing a hand over his pale hair. “I suppose they’ve never seen much in me, even after all this time.”
“Blind fools they are,” Rhaenyra agrees. She captures Alicent’s hand and holds the back of it against her lips, kissing just below the rings there. “I ought to make you my Hand. You’re already the one I depend on most.”
The older children had all gone off to their own chambers, but Luke, Joff and Daeron had remained on the thick rug in front of the hearth, playing with little Aegon. Daeron approaches them, obviously having caught some of the conversation as he says: “You can’t be the Hand, mother! Then grandfather will be out of a job.”
“That’s quite alright. He could take over as cupbearer,” Rhaenyra jests, smirking as the boy’s violet eyes widen.
“Don’t worry dear,” Alicent reassures him, “I wouldn’t dare.”
“Grandfather might take Lord Wylde’s place as Master of Laws,” Daeron offers. He picks the toy dragon from Viserys’ hands and starts flying it around his head, to the amusement of the toddler.
Rhaenyra raises her brow at the boy. “Why him?”
A blush spreads on Daeron’s cheeks. “No reason,” he mutters.
Alicent motions for him to take his nephew and Daeron holds the child up against his chest, frowning when his mother musses his hair and kisses them both. “Alright, off to bed with you.”
“But I’m not tired yet!”
Rhaenyra signals at Luke, who comes to kiss her cheek before taking the other boys along to their rooms, two servant girls helping him with the little ones.
Then it’s just the two of them left, and the royal apartments are finally, blissfully quiet. “I think I know why Lord Wylde,” Alicent murmurs as she leans into her.
“Why?”
“He’s the scariest, of course.” She grins at Rhaenyra over the rim of her cup, before taking a long, slow sip.
Rhaenyra hums in agreement—it makes sense, she supposes. Jasper Wylde is a skillful politician, but with his perpetually glowering face and loud, booming voice, she could see how a particularly spirited argument made by the man could inspire fear in a child.
“I’ll find a place for your father amongst the council,” she says eventually, after having taken a moment to think on it. “Whether as Lord Confessor, or as Master of Ships, I do not yet know.”
Alicent shoots her an incredulous look. “You were serious? Would you not keep him as Hand?”
“I meant what I said,” Rhaenyra tells her. “It would only be giving a legitimate name to the position you already occupy.”
She gazes into impossibly deep brown eyes, and they stare back just as intently. “And what position would that be?”
Rhaenyra shrugs, allowing a crooked smile to pull at her cheeks. “My lady, my Queen. My most trusted confidante. Hand of the queen you can get—you already have my heart.”
As if to find confirmation of that statement, Alicent’s hand slides down her arm to her wrist, gliding over that familiar line of white, so smoothly healed that Rhaenyra thinks she might not even feel it under her fingertips.
“I ought to start a collection,” Alicent says, fingers flexing over Rhaenyra’s hand. She sets her cup down on the empty table and turns her full attention to her Queen, finally coming as close as Rhaenyra has wanted her ever since that blasted council meeting, beginning to explore all the parts of her that remain unclaimed.